


Provenance

by coyotesuspect



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: First Time, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:46:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4803386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotesuspect/pseuds/coyotesuspect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaby agrees to help Napoleon with an art heist. Things go according to plan. Until they don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Provenance

Gaby has a flat in London now, a gift from the dying empire to one of its newest soldiers. She knows, of course, it is bugged. She doesn't mind. If someone kills her while she's in the apartment, at least someone else will overhear. 

It is also very chic, which pleases her. She likes nice things on principle, and because she was once deprived of them. Still, there’s only so much time she can spend admiring the saffron and green of her wallpaper before she wants to put her head out her window and scream like she's on fire. 

After months of running from one crisis to another, she has two weeks off; they all do. For once, the world is seeing to its own housekeeping instead of trying to eat itself. London, in November, and the trees that line the street outside her house, which in spring and summer provide a shimmering green screen of privacy, are bare. They stand grim and silent as watchmen. It keeps raining, a slanting, silver rain that frizzes her hair and oozes into her bones. She wishes she were back in Rio. 

Napoleon was shot in Rio, but at least it had been warm. 

She works on her Russian and goes for long drives, out of London and into the soggy countryside. At night, she goes dancing. In the mornings, she makes tea and wonders what Illya and Napoleon are doing. Napoleon must be playing his injury to the hilt. No doubt he is at a beach somewhere, with a pretty girl or two to admire his new scar. 

Illya she has a harder time imagining at rest. Probably he is training, and in two weeks’ time when they resume their acquaintanceship, he will know French or capoeria or hot air balloon piloting. The KGB is never done sharpening its knives. 

On the evening of the fifth day of their vacation, as if summoned by her thoughts and her growing boredom, Napoleon appears in her kitchen. 

It's very well done. There are no signs that anything is amiss as she walks up the steps to her flat, fresh from another drive in the damp. The lock looks innocent, completely unperturbed. He must have disabled the alarm system as well. He also must hear her coming, because when she walks in, he is staring into her cupboard, wearing a disgruntled frown like she's hidden a body in there. It’s clearly a pose.

"Coca-Cola and bananas?" he says, looking up as she stops in the doorway of the kitchen. 

"We could not get them on the other side of the Wall," she says with a shrug.

She takes her coat off and throws it haphazardly across a dining room chair. Napoleon frowns at it, very slightly. 

"There are a lot of things you can't get in East Berlin," he says, in that rich, hollow voice of his. "But I don't see caviar in your fridge."

She unties her scarf and shakes the rain water from it, then tosses it onto a different chair from the one her coat is on. Napoleon frowns a little more perceptibly. 

“You can get caviar. If the party officials really like you.”

She marches into the kitchen and pushes past Napoleon. He steps back reluctantly, and she pulls a Coke from the cupboard.

"What are you doing here?" she asks. She pulls the tab and drinks the soda warm, reveling in the look of mild disdain Napoleon is unable or unwilling to suppress. "And why are you poking around in my cupboard? I don't want you to cook for me. I ate enough mushy food that smelled like feet in Germany."

Napoleon leans back against her counter, hands clasped loosely in front of him. He is dressed exquisitely, as usual. There are blue pinstripes in his suit that match his eyes. 

“My apologies for barging in like this,” he says, with absolutely no remorse evident in his voice. “I would have brought flowers, but with any luck, you won’t have enough time to admire them before we leave.”

Gaby doesn’t respond, but leans against the counter opposite Napoleon and sips at her Coke. She won’t give Napoleon the pleasure of feeding him his lines. And, like an intrepid actor in a local production, he barrels on anyway. 

“I need a favor,” he says. “Regarding a small, personal project.”

He smiles at her like a man who’s never had a girl say no to him. There are times, like now, when she wants to twist that smile off his face, to break that porcelain exterior and see what lies inside him. Is it only air? She thinks it might be. 

“You should be recovering,” she tells him. Rio had been scary and less than a month ago. He lost a lot of blood. She takes another sip; the Coke is much sweeter than the Vita Cola she drank back in Germany. It's too sweet, really, and still strange to her. 

“At least get some ice…” says Napoleon with a sigh. He starts searching her kitchen for glasses. When he finds one, he sets it on the counter and opens her freezer. 

He moves slowly. It is nothing someone who did not know him would notice. But Gaby knows him well by now. She does notice. If he is asking for help, then he must think he really needs it. 

“What kind of personal project?” she asks, handing him her Coke for him to pour. 

Napoleon waits until he’s finished pouring before he speaks. When he does, he looks angelic.

“I’ve received information that a certain painting of very high value is going to exchange hands at the Royale-les-Eaux in Monaco this weekend.” 

“And you’d like to make sure it exchanges into your hands?” says Gaby. Waverly had briefed her on this – Napoleon’s past and his penchant even now for finding ‘alternative revenue streams.’

“It’s technically not stealing if it’s already been stolen,” says Napoleon. “Not in any ethically meaningful sense, at least.”

“It was stolen during the war, you mean.”

Napoleon nods. “So I think it’s only fair it ends up with someone more deserving.”

“Such as yourself?” 

“Myself, or any other individual of decent moral standing and adequate bank account.”

Gaby snorts. It is so very Napoleon and so very predictable that he recover from injury by committing an art heist.

“So what’s your plan?”

“It’s the simplest of schemes. We’ll be a couple on vacation, of course. I’ll be Jack Harding, self-made man, and you’ll be my lovely wife, Lola. We met in Germany while I was stationed there after the war. The prospective buyer is one Count Gustav of Sweden. All we have to do is break into his room after the sale’s been completed.” 

Napoleon spreads his hands as he speaks. A magician’s trick, thinks Gaby. He wants you to focus on his hands so you don’t focus on his face, where you might be able to tell a lie. The only problem is, with Napoleon, it might just be habit at this point. 

“Lola?” 

Napoleon takes her free hand. “What’s wrong with Lola?” 

“Not Lola,” says Gaby firmly. “I want to be… Vanessa. It’s sexier.” 

Napoleon lowers his head and kisses her hand. His mouth is very soft, and the back of Gaby’s neck seems to tingle. 

“I’ve already had your passport made,” he says, still with his head lowered. His eyelashes sweep darkly across his cheekbones. He almost manages to sound apologetic this time. 

“Then you’ll have to figure out a way to make it up to me,” she replies. She withdraws her hand and gives him her empty glass to wash, then swishes off to her room. She has to pack. 

Monaco, she thinks. Maybe it is still sunny there.

***

They leave the next day. Napoleon has even bought an outfit for her to wear on the flight. 

“You really know how to treat your bride,” says Gaby dryly, examining herself in the mirror. 

She passes her hand over the cloth at her hip. She looks like she stepped out of a window on Carnaby Street, and she suspects the dress costs enough to justify the Cold War in the first place. She wants to know what Illya would think about the dress. She likes the color herself, but she does not really think a dress should cost more than a car. Even if she is gorgeous in it. 

Napoleon leans over her shoulder, adjusting his cufflinks in the mirror. His chest is nearly pressed to her back. Like most big men, the warmth that radiates off him is almost physical. It would be a very simple thing to lean back into that heat. She rejects the impulse quickly. 

“Anything for you, darling,” he says, low and pleasant against her ear, and then he pulls away. Gaby feels, very briefly, unmoored.

Gaby clears her throat and turns to examine him carefully. She smooths down the lapels of his jacket, though they do not need to be smoothed. 

"Jack Harding. Such a boring name for you," she tells him. She stands his collar up, and he gives her the peeved look of a cat before carefully folding the collar back down. 

“Though Napoleon is an unusual name for an American,” she adds. “What were your parents thinking?” 

Napoleon smiles his most disarming smile, collar now perfectly back in place. “It was my mother’s choice. My father hated the French.”

It’s an odd explanation. Gaby is mostly of the opinion Napoleon is a fake name. She believes Napoleon is a self-made man, a total invention. He’s successful at his lies because he tells you first thing he’s lying. She keeps panning for hints of his true self. She’s sure Illya does the same.

“Hmm,” she says, with her hands resting on his chest. “I’m sure that showed your father.”

“Hmm,” he echoes back at her. He takes her hand and looks at it. “You’ll need your ring, of course.” 

Gaby pouts at him. “I was going to tell everyone you gambled it away.”

“I would never,” says Napoleon, and he produces the ring from her ear and shows it to her. 

Gaby doesn’t comment on the trick, and she doesn’t admire the ring, though it’s beautiful. It’s a large diamond surrounded by a ring of smaller ones, set on a platinum band. It looks old. 

“My grandmother’s,” says Napoleon. 

“Yours or Jack Harding’s?” asks Gaby. She takes the ring from him and puts it on herself. To let him do it would feel like cheating, somehow. She wonders about Illya again, what is he doing, where he is. She doesn’t wonder what he would think of all this – Napoleon’s plan, their cover story. She knows he wouldn’t approve. 

“What’s the difference?” Napoleon’s face is impassive, but she can tell he’s laughing at her all the same. 

She sighs at him and makes a show of examining the ring.

“It’s tacky. Perfectly American.” 

Napoleon laughs loudly and the noise echoes back to them in her small, neat bedroom.

“Sheathe your claws, Lola. You won’t have to wear it long.”

She sniffs at him. 

“Tell me more about the count. How are we going to break into his rooms?” she asks. The ring feels heavy on her hand. She’d never really gotten used to wearing Illya’s either. She’s still not used to jewelry. 

“Ah," says Napoleon, smirking. "It's simple. You see, the count has a predilection for beautiful brunette women.” 

“I am more than a pretty object,” protests Gaby. She tilts her chin up and purses her lip. “I am not _you_ , Solo.”

"Hurtful, but fair," says Napoleon, after a second’s consideration. "I don't need you to seduce him, Gaby. Just distract him. I'll handle the rest." 

"Good, because I am not sleeping with someone just so you can get a picture." 

“Nor would I expect it of you.” He offers her his arm. “Now, come, sweetheart. We’ll miss our flight.”

They spend the flight “getting to know each other,” as Napoleon puts it. His backstory for them is quite extensive, and Gaby dutifully commits it to memory after adding her own revisions.

“I was not a waitress eager to practice my English,” objects Gaby. “That is not how we met.”

She pauses, considering what their backstory should be, and then adds, “I leapt from a burning building, and you caught me." 

“Why was the building burning?” demands Napoleon, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“Faulty electrical wiring. There were so many cheap buildings thrown up after the war.” 

Napoleon laughs and gestures for the stewardess to order them both another drink. 

“Very well, darling.” 

***

Monaco is sunny, and much warmer than London, and the water is a lustrous blue that shames the sky. She stands on the beach outside the casino that first evening and watches the froth dash like horses to the shore. The waves, as they rise, look like colored glass. Even now, with East Germany months behind her, she is as greedy as a child, as easily impressed. 

“Very beautiful,” says Napoleon, standing behind her, his hand on her waist. But his eyes are off the water and down the beach, on a couple of long-legged young women strolling through the sand. 

Gaby elbows him in the side. 

“You’re supposed to be acting like my husband.” 

He smiles at her and takes her hand, lifting it to his lips. He’s become fond of the habit. It could be something he imprinted on as a child, she thinks – something his supposedly French-hating father did for his mother, maybe. Probably it is nothing so Freudian as that, just a tic adopted for this character, a shorthand for affection. Still, the act makes her think wistfully of Illya and his hands, how tender they can be, how precise. 

“Oh, I am, Lola. It’s all part of the plan.” 

She huffs. “When do we make contact?” 

“At dinner. I have an invitation to the count’s table.” 

“And how did you manage _that_?” 

But Napoleon merely smiles at her. He never reveals his tricks. 

True to his word though, they dine with the count. There are several others at the table, minor functionaries and hangers-on whose names Gaby does not bother to learn. The casino is a grand, expansive building, done in the Belle Époque style. The dining room is a large banquet hall, glittering with chandeliers, and with a view of the sea. Night has fallen, so the windows show only black, but Gaby knows if she pressed her face to one, she would be able to make out the Mediterranean glimmering darkly against the pale shore.

“I’m Jack Harding,” says Napoleon, during introductions. His voice is pure Radio Free Europe. “And this is my wife, Lola Harding.” 

“Good evening,” purrs Gaby. She thickens her accent and gazes coyly at the count. “I’ve never met nobility before!” 

Count Gustav is a tall man, with large, protruding eyes and a thickening paunch. He was probably attractive once, but time and indulgences have caught up with him. At least his hair is still thick.

“German,” he notes, eyes lingering on Gaby. “Did you meet during reconstruction?” 

Napoleon squeezes her hand tightly. Gaby grimaces and hopes it can pass as a smile.

“Yes indeed. I met the little Fräulein when I was stationed in Berlin.” 

Gaby giggles demurely, playing the vapid, beautiful wife. Napoleon, it has always been interesting to her, only ever plays himself, and he does so now. He’s left out the bit about the burning building. In fact, his story comes very near to the truth of how the real Napoleon and real Gaby met. Though it leaves out the part about the psychotic Russian super soldier chasing them. 

“He was sooo handsome,” she croons, reaching up to pinch his cheek. He wrinkles his nose at her slightly – _don’t overplay it, Gaby_. “It was love at first sight.” 

Then, she sees him. Illya – across the room and seated at the bar. His back is to her, but his bulk is unmistakable. Her mind skips like a scratched record. She’s surprised, and it’s not a feeling she is used to any more. 

She giggles again at something Napoleon says to her, something she does not catch. He must realize she’s at loose ends, because his gaze travels along hers and he sees Illya, too. 

“Ah, I think I might get something with a little more kick than this wine,” he says, rising. He slaps the count on the back. “You Scandinavians know what I mean, right?” 

He strides off, without waiting for Gustav’s answer, leaving Gaby alone. The count’s eyes sweep across her and her skin tightens in disgust. Napoleon at least never seems to feel like he’s entitled to her. She watches him stand beside Illya, his arms on the counter, and hears his rippling laughter from across the room. If Illya laughs as well, she cannot hear it.

She smiles at the count. She wants very badly to go join Illya and Napoleon. Illya! Here! Napoleon must have asked him to help as well. But why Napoleon did not mention it, she cannot fathom.

“It is so charming to meet you,” she tells the count, dropping her eyes demurely. “Have you had much luck while here?” 

As the night gambols on, it is easy enough to continue being alone with the count. He is clearly eager to spend time with her, and Napoleon drifts in out and naturally enough, spending large amounts of time at the craps table. A woman in a red dress emerges from seemingly nowhere to hover over him and clutch at his shoulder. Illya joins the table, too, and she sees Napoleon flash his teeth at him, a challenge. Illya’s eyes flick over Napoleon contemptuously. One of them will be losing a lot of money tonight, and Gaby has a gnawing need to join and beat them. Napoleon’s the one who wants the painting; why should she be the one who has to miss out because of it? 

But she does not like to back down from a challenge, and even if she does not yet understand why Illya has been called in, she understands why she has to be alone at least. 

Every now and then, she sees Illya glance at her. She didn’t catch his first look, so she has no idea how he reacted, if he knew she was involved from the beginning, or if he was just as surprised to see her as she was to see him. When their eyes meet, they both blush and look away. 

Gustav, who is telling her a long, boring story about his favorite horse, thinks the blush is for him and beams. His conversation is only barely tolerable, but Gaby learns he is at least a decent dancer. She laughs at all his jokes and touches his arms and chest, and he is besotted by the end of the night. At the craps table, Illya’s face gets redder. Napoleon looks smug. She can’t tell if their reactions are at her success, or Napoleoon’s prowess at craps. 

She retires before Napoleon does, pleading a headache, and lets Gustav walk her back to her room. She sleeps late the next day. Napoleon, if he ever comes in, leaves before she’s awake. She considers tracking either him or Illya down. 

Neither man makes an appearance. They could be off together, casing the count’s rooms or playing cards. The thought makes her angry, and when Gustav sends her a note a little after noon asking her to dine with him, Gaby accepts immediately. 

“I have not seen my husband all day,” she tells Gustav, halfway through their meal when he asks how the two of them are enjoying their stay. 

He looks sympathetic. “Ah, my dear. I saw him earlier. He has much business to attend to, no?” 

“I suppose,” she says dubiously. “But I thought we were on vacation.” 

He smiles at her. “Are you not enjoying yourself? Should I pour you more wine? Would you like another quail egg?” 

Gaby says yes to both. After they’re done, he takes her on a walk through the gardens on the casino grounds. They are as immense and impersonal as everything else here. 

“I wish Jack were here,” she sighs, once she’s gotten tired of faking her laughter. “I should go back to my room to see if he’s waiting for me. But thank you for the beautiful afternoon.” 

***

She finally sees Napoleon that night at dinner. He comes in through a side door with Illya, who peels off immediately to sit at the bar. Gaby frowns hard at his back, and she notices the count is frowning, too, but at Napoleon. He and Gaby are guests at Gustav’s table again, but Gustav is definitely disappointed Napoleon bothered to show up. 

Napoleon saunters over and presses two kisses to her eyelids before dropping into the seat beside her. 

Gustav murmurs grumpily.

“There you are, darling,” says Napoleon, his hand on her back. It’s an unexpected amount of contact after being alone throughout the day. “How was your day?” 

“The count showed me a lovely time,” Gaby tells him, prickly despite the conciliatory tone he has taken. He has ignored her all day, with good reason she knows, but she is not just the _girl_ , to be dangled as bait and left out. 

“I wondered where you were,” she adds petulantly. 

He smiles at her and squeezes her hand, then kisses it yet again. 

“Oh, business, darling. I always have business.”

The second night passes much as the first, except Napoleon disappears before Gaby does. One second, he is at the roulette table, smirking at Illya, the next second, he is gone. Illya, however, remains, and he lifts his eyebrows at Gaby when she looks at him. She blushes and looks away. She wants to talk to him. But there is no reason for her to, especially when she can sense the count staring at her from across the room.

The count comes to her.

“Your husband seems to have disappeared again,” he tells her with a knowing look. “Would you care to come up for a nightcap?” 

Gaby hesitates. Her eyes lock on Illya’s again, and he looks down at the table. But then he nods. To anyone at the table, it must look like he’s considering his chances. 

Gaby smiles. “Well, I don’t see the harm. And I am sure Jack would not mind, since he has been so busy.” 

“Yes,” says Gustav, still knowing. He pats her on the arm with a clammy hand. His large, fishy eyes seem to glow with excitement. “I’m sure he would not.” 

“What do you mean?” asks Gaby innocently. She widens her eyes deliberately, and the count chuckles. 

“When we are alone, Lola.” 

He leads her up to his rooms. He seems to have been staying in the casino for quite a while. The decorations are old money, nothing like Gaby’s mod flat or the airy, light rooms she and Napoleon are staying in. To be rich and parasitical, thinks Gaby with longing. 

“Would you like a drink?” asks Gustav. He has not let go of her arm. 

Gaby nods, and the count finally lets go to pick up a decanter of some golden-hued drink from the fireplace mantle. Gaby walks past him, to admire a painting hanging above a leather armchair. A tall, pale-faced woman, draped in indigo cloth, stares back at her. The woman’s eyes are dark and sad and kind. Gaby wonders if this is the painting Napoleon wants to steal. 

“Do you admire art?” asks Gustav, joining her. He hands her her drink. His eyes are soft. Men’s eyes are often soft, in Gaby’s experience. 

“Not particularly,” says Gaby honestly. “But she is very beautiful.” 

“You are very beautiful,” says Gustav, voice low and throbbing with emotion. Gaby almost recoils. 

“Oh. That’s very… That is very kind of you. But…” She summons her kindest, most empathetic look. “I am married. I am flattered. But I am married, and I love Jack very much.” 

Gustav looks back at her gravely. 

“Lola, my dear. I don’t know how to say this, but you deserve to know. Your husband, Jack, he is cheating on you.” He takes her hand and stares earnestly into her eyes. 

“I,” says Gaby. She catches a glimpse of movement from behind the count – Illya, moving quietly as a creature from a folktale. How long has he been inside the room?

She puts her drink down on a side table by the chair and places her hand against the side of her face. “My husband? _Jack_?” 

Gustav nods. He takes her free hand. “I am so sorry to be the one to tell you. Please, if there is anything I can do…” 

She can tell that he is not sorry at all. His face is lit like a child’s about to receive a sweet. She pulls her hand away. 

“How do you know? Why should I believe you?” she demands. She picks up her drink again and considers throwing it at the fireplace. Would that be too dramatic? 

“I saw him,” says the count, hushed. He is practically salivating, thinks Gaby in disgust. “Last night. He never came back to your room, did he?”

“Scheiße!” she curses. She turns on her heel and dashes her drink at the fireplace. It shatters satisfyingly against the marble. When she turns back to Gustav, she is blinking tears into her eyes. 

“How could he do this to me?” It is too dark to be sure, but she thinks she can make out Illya's grimace. Probably he is rolling his eyes as well. He now holds a large, rectangular object. So it is not the dark-eyed woman Napoleon is after, but something else. 

Gustav holds her by the shoulders and leans in close to her. His breath smells faintly sour. 

“Lola, my dear, you deserve better.”

Gaby covers her face and sobs. Through her fingers, she sees Illya open the door and slip out of the room.

“What room is he in? I have to see him.” She hiccups pathetically for added measure. 

Gustav grips her upper arm. 

“Please, let me come with you.” 

She shakes him off. 

“No,” she gasps. “Please.”

She wipes at her eyes and adds, “I need to do this alone. Oh, Jack. My Jack. How could he do this to me?” 

Gustav’s hands hover towards her. He obviously wants to pull her back towards him, to take advantage of her distress. Gaby swallows hard and squares her shoulders. 

“Thank you for your kindness,” she tells him tearfully. “I will call on you in the morning, if you don’t mind. I could use a friend.” 

The count seems to relax and lowers his hands.

“Very well, Lola. I am here if you need me.” 

Gaby nods at him and dashes from the room, annoyed once again at Napoleon. Not for "cheating" on her, but charming her into this whole stunt in the first place. She gets pawed at by enough men in their line of work. 

Illya, at least, is waiting for her at the end of the hallway, the painting wrapped in brown paper and tucked discreetly beneath his arm. 

“Solo did not tell me you were helping as well,” he grumbles disapprovingly. 

She tucks her arm into his free one. She's still curious why Illya agreed to help. Napoleon, it is clear, can do as he wishes so long as he does not endanger the mission – and the US government seems to have a very nebulous definition of what "endanger the mission" means. And Gaby is Waverly’s favorite, a daughter to him, almost, if she were looking for a father-figure, so she has no fear of reprisal from him should he discover what she’s up to. But Illya is beholden to the KGB, and they, she imagines, would not take too fondly to this kind of extracurricular activity. And a large Russian in a Monaco resort is exactly the sort of thing that would catch someone’s attention. 

“Who are you pretending to be?” she asks. “Russian prince in exile? A traveling bear trainer?” 

Illya snorts, but he’s still holding himself tensely. He’s angry, notes Gaby, but not yet in danger of losing control. It isn’t her he’s angry at. 

“German businessman,” he tells her in German. She’s impressed. His accent has much improved. He could pass as a native. “My English is not so good, though. I have not spoken it here.” 

“How is your French then?” 

“Passable,” says Illya. 

“Mm.” Gaby glances over her shoulder to make sure they’re not being followed. She sees no one. “How on earth did Napoleon get you to agree to this?” 

“He was going to do it anyway, despite his injury,” says Illya, with a half-hearted shrug. “And perhaps I think I owe him.”

“Men and their debts,” snorts Gaby. She rests her head against his arm. “What kind of business are you in, Herr Businessman?” 

“Art acquisitions,” he says blandly. She looks up, and sees the barest hint of a smile on his lips. He is looking back at her with his head bowed, shy as a boy.

She laughs, delighted. 

Napoleon is in their room when she and Illya arrive, but there’s no other woman in sight. Gaby stalks up to him anyway and slaps him across the face. 

“How dare you!” she cries. “After all we’ve been through! I trusted you!”

Napoleon catches her wrists and then picks her up by the waist and swings her around. It’s unexpected, and Gaby shrieks and grabs at his shoulders to steady herself. Napoleon puts her back on her feet and steps back into a deep bow. 

“Will you ever forgive me, kitten?” he says, grinning up at her. 

“Hmm,” says Gaby. She touches his hair. He remains in the bow. “Perhaps, but you are going to have to buy me a very big diamond.” The light catches on her ring and sparkles, and Gaby amends her statement. “ _Another_ one.” 

Napoleon laughs, but Illya’s smile has faded. 

“Enough of this. Let us see this painting.”

“Yes! You got it then,” says Napoleon, snapping to his full height and holding his hands out for the painting. He looks gleeful. 

Illya hands the painting over, expression disgruntled. Napoleon lays it on the table and unwraps it reverently, careful only to touch the frame. Gaby peers over his shoulder, curious to finally see it. Illya merely looks bored, and removes himself from the scene. He stands by the window, in profile, but Gaby can tell he’s watching them and not looking outside.

It is a lovely painting. A peasant girl stands in the foreground, face tilted upwards, a sickle held in her right hand. Her expression is bewitched, caught somewhere between longing and surprise. It’s a mix of sadness and desire that Gaby feels in her gut. It’s an expression Gaby must have worn once, a wall away from the entire world. 

Brown fields stretch behind the girl, ending in dark copse of trees, over which half the sun gleams redly. The light itself is striking, the transitional gloam of it, day about to break or the day about to end. Gaby reaches for the painting, and Napoleon grabs her wrist. 

“Careful. The oils on your fingers will ruin it.” 

Gaby lowers her hand and admires the painting from a safe distance. But she is itching to touch it. The paint is dabbed thickly on it, giving the picture texture, depth. She is not the type of person who is content just to look, like with cars and fighting and dancing and men, she wants to use her body. 

“And you plan on returning this to the family?” says Illya, finally approaching. He rests his hand on Gaby’s shoulder; his thumb tucks against her neck. It is a proprietary gesture. 

Napoleon smiles. “I’m afraid that would be rather difficult, historical events being what they are. But we’ll sell and split the profits. 50-25-25.” 

Illya and Gaby both protest at once, voices breaking over each other. 

“You did not do anything!” 

“I was the one who orchestrated the whole plan,” objects Napoleon. 

“Yes, and Illya stole the painting and I distracted the count,” says Gaby. 

“Yes. Distracted him.” Illya glares at Napoleon. “I did not realize _that_ was how you would be using her.” 

“Using me?” says Gaby, but Napoleon speaks over her. 

“It was her choice. I didn’t _make_ her do anything,” says Napoleon, looking at Illya levelly. 

"You pimped her out! She is not your whore, Solo," snarls Illya.

There are so many animals Illya is like, thinks Gaby. Wolf, bear, wounded dog. But Napoleon is all cat-with-cream. He smiles airily. She can practically see him lick his paws.

"Illya, don't you think you're overreacting?" says Napoleon, his tone the kind of reasonable that results in a broken jaw. 

Illya's fingers twitch. Gaby interrupts. Illya will hit Napoleon, but he will not hit her.

"Is it any different than when I pretended to be with you?"

Illya's flush is obvious.

"That is different!" he cries. "I would never take advantage of you."

Gaby looks at him dryly.

"But you did once threaten to put me over your knee."

Illya stands there for a second, fingers trembling, and his eyes storm-dark. Then, he turns and leaves the room, the door rattling on the frame as he slams it behind him. 

"Well," says Napoleon. He pours himself a drink and looks at it, quirking an eyebrow, then looks up at Gaby. "Did he really?"

His tone is earnest and inquisitive rather than lascivious. For all his conquests, Gaby has never known Napoleon to be overtly lascivious. She arches her eyebrows at him.

"Don't worry. I'm sure if you asked nicely, he would be willing to do the same to you."

She does her best to glide serenely from the room. She does not look back to see if her comment hits its mark. But she does think she hears Napoleon take an extra-long drink. That’s interesting. That’s a fact she files away.

***

She finds Illya in is room, though it takes her more time than she would like to finagle out where his room is. 

“If you’re hiding, you’re not doing a very good job of it.” 

He glowers up at her. He’s hunched over a chessboard, playing against himself as he always does. She wonders if it’s supposed to be some kind of metaphor about his divided soul, or if he just has that little respect for her and Napoleon’s skills. Perhaps that’s fair. She has never had the patience for chess, and it is not a game where Napoleon would be able to charm his way to victory. Not against Illya at least. 

“I am not hiding,” he says, clearly pouting. “I am merely playing a _real_ game.”

Gaby snorts derisively. She stalks across the room and sits on his knee. His entire body tenses, like a prey animal. She pretends not to notice and leans over the board and moves the white king three spaces into the path of the black queen. 

“Check mate,” she says cheerfully. “Game over. Now you have to do something else.”

“You can’t – ” Illya makes an exasperated noise deep in his chest. He reaches past her carefully and moves the king back.

“Are you mad at me?” she asks abruptly. 

“For moving the king?” says Illya. He won’t look at her. “I am used to your antics.”

“For partnering with Napoleon.” Gaby slides off his knee and stands. She looks into his eyes, frowning. Even with Illya sitting, she is barely taller than him. She puts her hands on his shoulders, as if that could keep him from standing and looming over her, but it makes her feel like she’s the one in the charge never-the-less. 

He looks up at her, obedient. 

“No,” he says, very quiet, and a little rough. He touches her jaw, carefully, and she shivers. The pads of his fingers are rough with calluses, but his touch is still gentle. “I am not mad at you.” 

“Good. Because I missed you,” she says, honest enough that it makes her chest ache. She turns her head and kisses his hand, at the base of his middle and ring fingers. 

Illya’s answering look is vulnerable. He doesn’t say he missed her too. He does not need to; Illya is a sentimentalist. She has known this about him for a while now. 

"I was jealous," he admits instead. 

"Of Napoleon? You know I don't..."

She doesn't think she does at least. Napoleon is intoxicatingly handsome, but he is like a body of water at twilight. It is impossible to tell his depth; he only reflects. 

But there’s a part of her, the part that’s never satisfied, that wants to see just how deep he is. 

"Yes," says Illya. He skims his fingers up her jaw and rests his hand on the back of her neck, beneath her hair. Then: "Of both of you."

" _Both_ of us?"

"Having," he hums, "adventures without me."

Illya is not always a very good Communist, thinks Gaby. He is overly proprietary. Napoleon, at least, for all that his service is unwilling, is the ideal form of the philosophy he represents – amoral, acquisitive.

Insatiable. 

She kisses the top of Illya’s head and remembers her own seething jealousy. She’s still jealous. 

“I think he was having adventures with both of us.”

It rankles that they are talking about Napoleon. Why should he be present in this conversation? It feels almost as if he is watching him, and that thought is at once thrilling and repulsive. Can any of them ever be free of the third? She thought constantly of Illya when with Napoleon. Do they think of her when she is absent?

She thinks about Napoleon’s little touches and flirtations from the last couple days. Had he been doing the same to Illya?

“We could have an adventure without him,” says Illya, and blushes immediately. It’s like a bad parody of a line Napoleon would try. But Gaby, to her own dismay, giggles – girlish and sincere. 

“We could,” she agrees, smiling widely.

They’ve been on this precipice for a while, both of them too professional to risk whatever mission they’re on at the time. But this isn’t a mission, thinks Gaby, and she missed him.

She kisses him and his fingers tighten in response. She sighs into his mouth and climbs into his lap again, straddling him. His hands slide down her back and cup her ass. She leans up into him and his fingers dig in and he stands, picking her up like she’s weightless. 

She kisses his neck. He carries her to the bed. 

After, she plays with Illya’s hair and thinks about what he said. He was jealous of both of them. It could be a problem. She was never a good Communist either. She does not like to share.

And she is also very greedy. 

***

Napoleon barges into the room in the middle of the night. 

“There you two are,” he says, once Illya has woken up enough to put his gun down. Gaby notices Napoleon has the wrapped painting beneath his arm. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to make a rather quick getaway.” 

If he is surprised or dismayed to find them in bed together, he doesn’t act it. Gaby seethes. Does he think they’ve been sleeping together for the past couple months? 

“What did you do now, Cowboy?” says Illya. He gets out of bed and takes the comforter with him, wrapped around his waist like a rather thick skirt and leaves Gaby the sheet. She wiggles out from under it. Napoleon has seen naked women before. She'll neither scar nor titillate him. 

“Why do you think _I_ did anything?” objects Napoleon. “I’ve been in my room all evening, wondering,” – his eyes cut to Gaby and linger – “where my wife is.” 

“That joke is not very funny,” says Illya. His back is turned to them as he attempts to hold onto his blanket as he wrestles one-handed into his shirt. Napoleon’s eyes are on his back now, where it dimples above his ass. His look is frank, curious. 

Gaby raises her eyebrows at him when he realizes she’s caught him. He winks, and her pulse thrills in a way that has nothing to do with an early morning escape. This is also interesting, but she doesn’t have time to investigate it. 

“Neither are the count’s goons, Peril,” says Napoleon. “How far is the ground from the window?” 

Gaby finishes getting dressed. 

“Is that really necessary?” she demands. 

Someone barks an order in angry French and bangs very loudly on the door.

“Does that answer your question?” says Napoleon. He darts to the window. It brings him very close to Illya, who has finally abandoned his attempt at modesty and is getting into his pants and trousers as quickly as possible. He doesn’t catch Napoleon’s admiring glance, but Gaby does. She can’t blame him. There is a lot to admire.

“It’s not that far,” says Napoleon. “And I already have a car ready for us around back.” 

“Such foresight,” mutters Gaby. She goes to the window and looks down. They’re on the second story, overlooking a garden. It’s much further than she would like. “I don’t suppose you managed to grab my luggage as well.” 

Napoleon clasps her by the waist and lifts her up onto the window ledge. 

“I’ll send for it later,” he promises, squeezing her hip. Illya makes an impatient, jealous noise. And the banging on the door gets louder. 

Gaby laughs, and then she jumps. 

Napoleon, true to his word, has a car ready. Illya refuses to let him drive though, and they lose a few seconds while the two argue in heated whispers. Gaby crawls past both of them and into the driver’s seat. 

“Shut up and get in the back,” she says. She’s the best driver of the three of them anyway. 

She slams down on the gas, whooping in glee as four dark-clad thugs come rushing out, just in time to watch her and Illya and Napoleon shoot off. 

They drive for France and into the night.

Gaby pulls over around dawn, a couple hours later. Illya is asleep, has a soldier’s ability to sleep whenever and wherever he is not currently under fire. But Napoleon, she can tell from the cat-gleam of his eyes visible in the rearview mirror, is awake. 

“Something the matter?” he asks softly. 

Gaby shakes her head and gets out of the car. After a second’s hesitation, Napoleon follows her. He looks at her curiously. Gaby gestures to the east. 

“Look,” she tells him. “It is like your painting.” 

Napoleon follows the line of her arm. They’re at the edge of a gold and brown field, fallow for autumn and misty. The field terminates in a strand of trees, leaves russet but still clinging. Above the trees, the sun is starting to rise, and the light on Napoleon’s face is red. Gaby watches his expression, but can read nothing from it. 

They stand there for a couple minutes, in silence, until the sun finally lifts itself above the trees, losing color as it does. 

They’re a hundred miles north of Monaco, and it’s colder here. The wind sighs through the long grass and wraps around her bare legs, chilling her. She shivers, and Napoleon’s attention returns to her.

“We should get back to the car,” says Napoleon. His expression softens finally, becomes surprisingly gentle. He places his hand on her back. 

“What are we doing?” she asks him quietly. 

“Watching the sunrise,” says Napoleon, voice light as the safecracker he is. 

“Sometimes I think you are too quick for your own good,” Gaby tells him, exasperated. 

Napoleon merely hums in response. The gentleness on his face is gone. 

“There’s a very nice hotel near here,” he says. “Rustic.” 

“Maybe you should drive then,” says Gaby, and she turns and stalks back to the car. 

They both get into the front, and Illya still appears asleep, slumped as stiffly and as bonelessly as an empty suit of armor. But his breathing has changed. Gaby meets Napoleon’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

They both know Illya is awake. Neither of them say anything. 

They find the hotel in time for a late breakfast of jam and baguettes and strong, hot coffee. Gaby nods off halfway through and allows Illya to carry her to her bedroom with only a single, murmured protest. 

She doesn’t remember reaching the bed, but she’s in it when she wakes up. The bed is luxuriously soft and the day seems well into afternoon. Illya is in the room, seated by the window. He’s reading, and Gaby can only make out enough of the cover to tell the book is in English. She knows if she shifts, IIllya will realize she’s awake and the book will disappear. She's curious where he got it from. It must have been in his coat pocket when they fled Monaco. 

He likes to pick up novels when he’s in the West, ones that are or would be banned back in the Soviet Union. But he doesn’t want her or Napoleon – especially Napoleon, she thinks – to know. She finds it endearing beyond belief and so allows him to continue to believe in his subterfuge. 

She sits up, and, as predicted, the book disappears. His hands are almost as quick as Napoleon’s. 

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, expression oddly formal. 

“Yes,” she says, stretching. She purrs in her satisfaction when her back pops. “Where is Solo?” 

Illya’s face closes up more. “Calling about the luggage.” 

Gaby laughs at him and gets out of bed. 

“I am allowed to be alone with Solo,” she says. She kindly edits out her own jealousy over all the time Napoleon and Illya were alone together recently. “I am allowed to wonder where he is. We work together.” 

“I did not say it was not allowed!” 

“No, you’re just acting the martyr over it.” 

There’s a small pillow with a decent heft to it on her bed. She picks it up and fires it at Illya. He catches it easily and frowns at her. 

Who is he jealous of? Is it her, or Napoleon?

Illya lowers the pillow to the floor. 

“I am sorry,” he says. He holds his hand out to her. “It is your business.” 

It’s their business, thinks Gaby. All three of theirs. But she doesn’t voice the thought, and goes instead to Illya, taking his hand.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, clearly trying to play conciliatory now. Gaby nods though. She _is_ hungry. 

He stands to get her food, and the door opens. Napoleon walks through, whistling jauntily. 

“Well that’s the luggage sorted,” he says. He nods at Gaby. “And good morning to you. Glad to see you’re finally awake.”

Gaby sneers at him in a friendly way. He smiles blandly back. 

Illya clears his throat, and they both turn to look. 

“I have been thinking, Solo. And I wanted to ask, how did the count know you had stolen his painting?”

Napoleon responds cheerfully and immediately. 

“Well, he was a bit quicker on the uptake than my usual clients. He realized the person most likely to have stolen the painting was the man who just sold to him.”

His eyes flick to Gaby. “He also had significant reason to dislike me and suspect me, as it turned out.”

Illya stares at him. Then he turns to Gaby. 

“Did you know about this?” he demands. 

“No!” says Gaby. Though it does make a tremendous amount of sense. She’s mad at herself for not figuring it out. She rounds on Napoleon. “I no longer feel bad about slapping you.” 

“You felt bad before?” asks Napoleon. His expression is mild. He’s already set out three glasses and started pouring them all drinks. 

“I am the only one here,” says Illya, sitting down with a heavy expression, “who has not lied to both the other two.”

“No, but you did try to kill us both,” says Napoleon. He hands Illya his drink. 

“I only tried to kill _you_ ,” objects Illya crossly. He sips at his drink, still scowling, but in a more playful way. “Gaby was to be taken alive.” 

Gaby pinches his cheek. 

“You’re so romantic, Illya,” she coos, swaying into his space. He puts his arm around her and tugs her closer, so she’s sitting more on his lap than the arm of the chair. 

She looks up; Napoleon is watching them closely. 

He smiles when she meets his eyes and raises his glass. 

“That reminds me. I’d forgotten to congratulate the two of you on the happy consummation of your relationship. Well done and _finally_.” 

“Solo,” rumbles Illya warningly. 

Napoleon laughs, sharp and short. 

“Relax, Illya. You’ve both been mooning over each other for ages. Any spy worth his salt would notice.”

It takes Gaby a second to realize it, but he sounds _jealous_.

“I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone,” he adds. Gaby can tell it’s meant to sound smarmy, but Napoleon can’t quite get the wink and smirk to land right. 

He gets up and moves towards the door – slow, and surprisingly stiff. 

“You’re hurt,” says Illya, attention snapping to Napoleon.

Napoleon stops and shrugs. The skin around his eyes tighten, almost a wince. 

“I took care of it earlier. But I really wasn’t planning on having to leap from a window in the middle of the night.”

Gaby stands and goes to him. 

“How is your injury?” she demands. She starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Napoleon laughs, surprised. “This is not how I pictured you undressing me, Gaby.” 

Illya grunts. 

“Be quiet, both of you,” commands Gaby. 

She pushes Napoleon’s shirt back and frowns hard at his side. The bandage there has just begun to soak through. 

The fear she felt that night roils up within her. She drives faster than Illya, and he had allowed her to drive that night without arguing, but only because they’d needed to get Napoleon to a hospital. Illya had sat with him in the back, trying to staunch the flow of blood. 

“Don’t worry, Cowboy. Every KGB agent learns how to stitch someone up in a moving car at night,” Illya told them, his face white. Napoleon had laughed in response, a terrible, rattling kind of noise and said, “That’s really not as comforting as you might imagine, Peril.”

She steps away from Napoleon. 

“You’re bleeding! You didn’t say anything!”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” says Napoleon. He knocks back his drink. “I just need to redo the stitches.” 

“Illya, handle it,” she snaps. She ignores her own glass and grabs the bottle and storms back to the couch, sinking into it with a glower. 

“I am sorry,” says Napoleon. He seems surprised that someone should care about him. 

“You are an idiot,” she says. “Why do you think Illya and I even agreed to help you with this stunt?”

“Neither of you can resist a challenge,” points out Napoleon. 

Gaby scowls at him. He’s only technically correct. 

“And because we both nearly watched you bleed to death in Brazil,” she says. She wants to throw something at his head and she looks for a handy object. The pillow from earlier is still by Illya. “We care about you.” 

“Is that true?” asks Napoleon, looking at Illya. 

Illya snorts. “I just think there are better ways for you to die, Cowboy, then defrauding an inbred count.”

“I was hardly going to get myself _killed_ doing this!” says Napoleon, clearly offended. 

“It is a wonder you have not gotten yourself killed yet,” says Illya. He digs out a medic kit and goes to Napoleon, whose attempt at looking dignified while shirtless is mostly successful, even in Gaby’s currently uncharitable opinion. 

She drinks from the bottle and scowls. Illya is professional and quick, his fingers moving lightly over Napoleon’s side. Napoleon is tense, holding his breath and looking off into the far distance. 

“He was looking at you earlier,” says Gaby viciously. She’s angry at Napoleon for being hurt, angry at herself for caring, and angry at being ignored the last couple days while the two of them played cards and flirted. 

“What?” say both Napoleon and Illya in unison. 

She gestures at Napoleon with the bottle. 

“He was looking at you, Illya. When we were leaving the hotel.”

Napoleon has gone even more still. But he’s looking directly at Gaby now, a tiny frown between his perfect brows, like someone’s started sketching a line of symmetry down his face.

Gaby preens and takes another swig from the bottle. Illya is still too, now, his eyes moving slowly between her and Napoleon. 

“While you were naked,” she adds helpfully, to Illya. 

“He was curious,” says Illya, with a blank look. “It is natural. He wanted to confirm that we Russians are bigger.”

That breaks the thrall Napoleon is under. He laughs loudly and picks his shirt up off the floor, moving carefully. 

“Don’t get cocky. You’re merely proportionate.” 

Illya seems satisfied with this explanation. Gaby rankles. 

“He hasn’t been… touchy with you, has he, Illya? In your space more than usual?” 

Illya stirs sort of restlessly. Gaby adds, “Because he has been with me.” 

Napoleon stares at her hard, and Gaby hides her face by tilting her head back and gulping down her drink. She needs the courage. 

“I was pretending to be your husband,” he says. His voice is surprisingly strained. She thinks she’s read this right, but she’s forcing Napoleon’s hand before he’s ready and he clearly doesn’t like it. But Gaby is tired of waiting for Napoleon’s surprises and she’s proud of herself for at least figuring out this game. 

“My philandering husband,” corrects Gaby. She sets her glass down and smirks at him. “And you did it when we were alone as well.” 

Illya looks between the two of them. He doesn’t seem angry, just confused. 

“What are you saying? Be clear. Both of you.” 

“I think he wants you. I think he wants both of us.” 

Napoleon breathes in through his nose. “What’s gotten into you, Gaby?” he asks. 

She’s not used to seeing him nervous. She likes it. And she squirrels away the nugget that he can be made nervous into her mental file of facts on Napoleon Solo. She likes puzzles, but she’ll crack him open if she has to. 

“It is the best way,” says Gaby firmly. Her eyes travel slowly between Illya and Napoleon. “This way no one feels left out.” 

They are both silent. Gaby shrugs and stands. 

“I will leave you two to think about it.” 

Napoleon catches her by the wrist before she can make it to the door. His eyes are puzzled, his fine face for once distorted by emotion. But whatever he sees in her own face settles him. He looks up at Illya, and pulls Gaby close to his chest. 

“I think you might be on to something here, Gaby,” he says, though he’s looking still at Illya, like a dare. 

Illy says nothing and does nothing. His palms lay open at his sides. 

Napoleon tilts Gaby’s face up and kisses her. It is a long, dreamy kiss. Napoleon’s hand moves from her face to her arms to her side to rest finally on the small of her back. It is not a very deep kiss, but it feels showy, meant for Illya rather than Gaby. Gaby growls into Napoleon’s mouth and bites his plush lower lip. It must catch him by surprise, because he swears and tugs her closer. 

“That is enough,” says Illya. 

Napoleon pulls away from Gaby, smirking. She feels rather breathless, not just because of the kiss, but because of what it means. 

“Is it?” asks Napoleon. “Is it your turn, Peril?” 

“Yes,” says Illya emphatically, and he crosses the room in two long strides and grabs Napoleon by the hair.

And then Illya kisses him. It’s a rough, dominating kiss. Not at all like how Illya kissed her last night. Illya wants to serve her, but Napoleon he wants to own.

Napoleon grabs Illya by the wrist and pulls his hand away, while also trying to push Illya towards the bed. Illya growls and turns them around so Napoleon is the one backing towards the bed. It’s almost enough to make Gaby laugh. Even this is a competition. 

They make it to bed but they’re not done. Napoleon throws his leg around Illya’s hip and manages to flip their positions. He is briefly but smugly on top, before Illya grabs him the waist of his pants and slams him hard into the bed. He pins Napoleon by sheer force of bodyweight.

“I’m injured,” protests Napoleon, but he’s grinning. “This is unsporting.” 

Illya eases himself off Napoleon with a smirk and gestures for Gaby. 

“Come here,” he tells her. 

“You didn’t put up much of a fight,” says Gaby to Napoleon. She goes to Illya easily and he holds her hand and gazes up at her. 

“What would you like?” he asks. 

Gaby purses her mouth and looks over both of them. They’re both beautiful, she thinks – Napoleon, more angel than man, Illya a force of nature of his own. 

“Sit up,” she tells Napoleon. It’s experimental. She’s not sure if he’ll listen to her. 

But he does, his eyes locked onto her face. He sits up slowly. Gaby checks his injury instinctively. Illya was not that careful with him while manhandling him to the bed. But Illya’s stitches have held up and the new bandage is clean and still firmly attached to Napoleon. 

She climbs onto the bed and settles against Napoleon’s chest, tucked into the vee of his legs. He runs his teeth up the side of her neck. She shivers and turns for a kiss. It’s messy, heated, slow and showy. She can feel Napoleon’s heartbeat picking up, beating a tattoo to almost match her own against her back. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Illya approach. He looms over them and touches his fingers gently against the inside of her knee. She remembers the first time he touched her there, while she was readying herself to betray him. Napoleon does something truly wicked with his tongue and she whines, already feeling overheated and achey. This is a dizzying new territory. 

Illya slides his hand up her thigh, purposeful now, and rubs at her clit through the thin fabric of her panties. She moans, legs parting of their own accord. 

“Easy, Lola,” says Napoleon, and she can feel his grin against her mouth. 

“Fuck you,” replies Gaby, and she presses back into him and rubs her ass against his erection.

Napoleon breaks off the kiss with a laugh and muffled swear. He rucks her skirt up and spreads her legs, his hands pale against her thighs. She’s turned on already, cunt throbbing. Illya lowers himself slowly, kneeling. His eyes are dark and take in both her and Napoleon in one hungry look. 

He hooks his fingers through her panties and pulls them down. Gaby watches, barely breathing. 

“Not bad, Peril,” says Napoleon, undoing a button on Gaby’s dress. “Good showmanship. Of course, you haven’t gotten to the really challenging part yet.” 

“Not all of us can have so much experience as you, Cowboy,” says Illya dryly. But his voice is slightly muffled. He’s not looking up at them. 

“This is not a competition. _I_ am not a competition,” declares Gaby.

Napoleon hums something noncommittal and undoes another button on her dress. His teeth are against her neck again. Illya kisses along the inside of her thighs, teasingly close, and she can even feel the soft touch of his eyelashes against the delicate skin there. 

“I never took you for a tease,” says Napoleon, still talking to Illya. He circles his thumb over on of Gaby’s nipples, and even through her bra, it’s make a little electric spark leap through Gaby’s stomach. Her legs are starting to tremble. Surely Illya can tell. 

“How does it feel to have two-hundred pounds of Russian killing machine between your legs?” asks Napoleon, low and dark against Gaby’s ear. 

Gaby turns her head and bites him. 

And then Illya presses his mouth against her and her mind whites out for a second. She breathes out unsteadily and grabs his hair. 

“Why am I not surprised you can’t shut up even in bed?” she tells Napoleon when she gets her voice back. 

She rocks back and forth between Illya’s mouth and tongue and Napoleon. Napoleon’s hands work along her sides and breasts, his mouth is at her jaw, her neck, her shoulders. He bites her earlobe, causing her to jerk in arousal and surprise. 

Between the two of them, it doesn’t take her long to come. She collapses back against Napoleon, and he kisses her hair at her temple, supporting her in his arms. 

Illya gets off his knees and kisses her, and she can taste herself on him. Then he leans over her shoulder and kisses Napoleon, which means _he_ can taste her too. The thought makes her squirm a bit. Napoleon clutches at Illya’s shoulder and drags him closer, so she’s pinned between them. 

She watches their mouths move, fascinated, but slides out from between them to catch her breath on the bed.

She props herself up on her elbow and watches them. Their foreheads are braced together. One of Illya’s arms is wrapped around Napoleon’s shoulders, his hand grips Napoleon’s hair firmly. Illya is breathing hard; his eyes are closed. Illya’s pants are undone and Napoleon has pulled his cock out, is using both his hands to work him. 

Illya swears and Gaby can see how his hand tightens in Napoleon’s curls. Napoleon breathes out shakily through his nose and kisses Illya. It’s gentler than their first kiss, more thorough. Gaby watches. Her chest feels tight and she feels heady and reckless, like after she’s had a lot of wine. She presses a hand between her legs and rocks into it. She’s still aroused and watching Napoleon and Illya is only making it worse. 

The two sway together, locked tight in one another. Gaby stores the memory away, something for later, something for always. Napoleon pulls out of the kiss and grins broadly. 

“Maybe next time, Peril, you can fuck both of us.” 

Illya comes with a loud curse all over Napoleon’s hand and arm. 

Napoleon leans back, expression satisfied, and licks his hand clean, starting with his wrist. Gaby and Illya both stare. 

“We were going to have clean it up, anyway,” he says, managing to sound both prim and lecherous at the same time. 

Illya snorts pushes Napoleon back onto the bed so he’s lying down by Gaby, then strips him roughly of his pants. 

“Careful!” says Napoleon. “Those are expensive.” 

“Capitalist pig,” snorts Illya. 

Napoleon’s cock curves red and hard towards his stomach. Gaby gets on her knees and crawls towards him. She takes the tip of his cock in her mouth and swirls her tongue over at it, smiles at Illya with her lashes. Both men make broken little noises, and Illya pushes her hair out of her face and looks down at her. He touches his thumb against her lower lip and then follows the shape of her mouth, tracing Napoleon’s cock as well as he does so. Gaby whines softly and takes a little more of Napoleon into her mouth. She’s wet all down her thighs. 

“This is all very well and good,” says Napoleon, voice strained. “But a little more, perhaps, would be well-received.” 

“Patience is a virtue, Cowboy,” lectures Illya. But he tilts Gaby’s face up and then picks her up and undresses her as quickly but with more care than he did Napoleon. She stands naked for a second next to the bed. Then, with a heated look for Illya, she straddles Napoleon and sinks down on him. 

“Jesus,” says Napoleon, tilting his head back, showing off his long, unmarked throat. 

Gaby rolls her hips, getting the feel of him. He’s not as big as Illya, but he’s close. She’s loose and wet from Illya earlier, but she still feels a little stretched. She grinds down and moans with pleasure as Napoleon rocks up to meet her. They work in a rhythm, getting the measure of each other, and then Illya takes her by the hips and speeds things up.

He slides her up and down on Napoleon. She curses loudly, the words starting to trip over themselves, and digs her nails into Napoleon’s chest. She has just enough presence of mind to avoid his injury but only just. 

Illya bites the back of her neck and adds one of his fingers. Gaby gasps, throat raw. Pain and pleasure shoot through her in equal measure. It is almost too much. 

Illya adds another finger, and Gaby cries out. Dark sparks are flashing at the corner of her eyes, like places where the universe has started to peel back. She clenches hard and Napoleon rocks his hips up and bites down lightly on one of her nipples at the same time. It’s enough; it’s more than enough. The black at the edge of her vision overwhelms her. She is vaguely aware of someone – Illya – lifting her up off Napoleon and placing her gently on the bed. But she’s far away, swimming in an ocean beyond sense. 

“When you are better,” Illya is saying when Gaby finally blinks back to reason. “We will do more than that. It is a promise.” 

Illya leans back from Napoleon and wipes his mouth. He’s smiling like a wolf. Gaby is slow-witted from her second orgasm. She puts it together in pieces – Illya’s red mouth, Napoleon’s dark-lidded smile, the come now streaking his stomach and chest. Oh, she thinks. Oh. 

Illya pats Napoleon’s side and gets up, headed towards the bathroom. Gaby wiggles up besides Napoleon and he smiles at her and touches her hair. 

“Feeling all right there, Fräulein?” 

Gaby nods; she still feels too raw to speak. She touches Napoleon’s mouth instead, the promising curve of his smile. His lips part and he sucks in her fingers gently. 

She looks up. Illya is watching them from the doorway of the bathroom, a wet rag held in his hand. He smiles at her, too. She winks at him. 

“We are all going to do all kinds of things together when you’re better,” she whispers to Napoleon. She moves her fingers and kisses him. Then kisses him again. 

***

She leaves the room the next morning while Napoleon is still asleep. His hair is ruffled and his expression slack. He looks, for once, very un-Napoleon. Illya, however, is awake, though still in bed, sitting against the back board and reading a book. With the languorous morning light coming in through the windows, they make a pretty sight. 

Illya raises his eyebrows at her and she smiles prettily in response. He doesn't put the book away this time.

“I need to run an errand,” she mouths. She points at Napoleon. “Don’t wake him until I’m back.”

Illya nods and returns to his book. He looks at ease for the first time since she’s known him, and it’s enough to send her back towards the bed to cup his face and kiss him. 

He blinks, startled, and starts to say something, but she presses her forefinger to his mouth and cocks her head at Napoleon. Then she bites his jaw, gently, a promise that she’ll return. Illya exhales audibly and nods. She beams at him. She likes this new language that they are learning to speak. 

She isn’t gone for very long. Napoleon wasn’t very clever when it came to hiding the painting in his room. So, really, it’s like he _wanted_ her to steal it from him. He knows who he is working with after all. And the concierge is only too happy to send her package on to London. 

When she gets back to the room, Napoleon is awake. He and Illya both are on the balcony, smoking and not looking at each other. Gaby wraps her arms around Illya’s waist and presses her face into his back. 

“We should get breakfast,” she says, pulling her face away enough to speak. 

She pokes her head around Illya and reaches a hand to Napoleon. After a pause, he steps towards her and takes it. Illya is caught between them. He doesn’t seem to mind. He even seems to relax.

Gaby smiles at both of them. There will be complications. They are all too tangled up for there not to be complications. But they are all right for now, with the sun shining, weak but determined, and a whole world for them to save again and again. 

***

“It’s a fake,” says Waverly, decisively. 

“It is?”

“Yes. But a very good one,” he says. “Though, really, any idiot with a fine arts background could tell you the brushstrokes are far too broad. And the paint’s too thick.”

He clasps his hands together and frowns at her. “We should really think about getting you some art history education. There are some excellent distance learning courses nowadays.” 

Gaby imagines herself spending nights alone in her apartment or a hotel room, staring at poorly reproduced copies of paintings and trying to identify what era they’re from. She makes a face. But, then she imagines Illya and Napoleon helping her. They’d make a game of it, either trying to best each other, or by Illya trying to maintain a straight face as he explains why each painting is actually by a Russian. 

“Tempting,” she tells Waverly. “We’ll see.” 

Gaby is pretty sure the painting being a fake means she doesn’t have to feel bad about keeping it. She wonders where Napoleon got it from, how long he’s been running this scam. He must know it’s a forgery. Could he have made it himself? 

When she gets home that night, she places the painting above her bed. If Napoleon decides he wants it back? Well. He will have to ask for it nicely.

**Author's Note:**

> I stayed up way too late to finish and post this. But I did it! Smeagol is free!
> 
> The painting in question (or, er, forged painting in question) is The Song of the Lark by Jules Breton, and you can see it in the Art Institute in Chicago. I felt weird choosing a painting that was really stolen during WW2, and uncreative enough to think of my own. So! I went with one of my favorites instead. 
> 
> Anyway - thank you for reading! This fic got entirely out of hand.


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